Becoming Jinn by Lori Goldstein Page B

wanted today to be like any other day.
    Laila stacks a plate in the dishwasher. “Show me more.”
    â€œMore what?” I pretend to be ignorant though I’m actually impressed she contained herself for so long. This is why she volunteered us for kitchen duty.
    â€œAnything. Everything. I can’t wait to see what I’ll be able to do.”
    I gesture toward the living room, where our mothers are debating who had the cutest pregnancy belly. “You know what you’ll be able to do. You’ve seen it with them our whole lives.”
    â€œBut they’re so high level. I want to see what I’ll be able to do.”
    My eyes float back before I can stop them.
    Laila’s face reddens. “Oh, it’s okay. It’s not like I expect to be as good as you. I really just want to watch you in action.” She clutches my hand. “Az, this is what we’ve been waiting for our whole lives.”
    â€œWe” is not the right pronoun, but I can’t tell her that while she’s looking at me with such affection in her eyes. She squeezes my hand. Maybe when we were younger I deserved Laila’s friendship, but why she’s stuck by me all this time, I don’t know. I haven’t been all that friendly the last couple of years. Still, she’s here. And not because she was dragged, unlike me the last few times my mother apped us to her house.
    â€œOkay,” I say to Laila, setting two empty wineglasses on the counter. Recalling the fruity taste of the red wine we had earlier—and picturing what I know of the wine-making process, which consists of a single image of bare feet stomping grapes, I close my eyes until it feels like icicles are stabbing my insides. When Laila yanks my arm, I open my eyes to see our glasses filled with a deep red liquid that I hope tastes like wine and not feet.
    A sneaky satisfaction fills me. “Voila!”
    Laila starts to clap. I cover her hands with my own to stop her. “Shh. They won’t let us. At least my mom won’t. Your mom would. You’re lucky.”
    Confusion passes over Laila’s face. “But we can’t actually drink it.”
    â€œDon’t you want more?” I prod.
    â€œHmm … we aren’t supposed to.”
    Words that will guide the rest of my life. But I’ve done enough of what I’m supposed to do today. And it’s still my birthday. “That’s what makes it fun,” I say.
    Laila hesitates. Neither of us could be called delinquents. But if one of us were the instigator, it’d be me. The salt instead of sugar “we” poured in our mothers’ coffee when we were eight, the heels “we” broke off my mom’s pumps and glued to our own when we were twelve, the hunger strike “we” went on when they said we couldn’t watch that vampire movie a couple of years ago, that was all me. And not because I’m a natural troublemaker. Because I bore easily, which explains the first two. The third is because I’m stubborn. And I hate to be told what I can and cannot do.
    Each time, Laila stood by my side, always using the wrong pronoun and saying “we” when our mothers asked whose idea the mischief had been.
    I pick up my glass and say the words I know will convince her. “To sixteen.”
    Laila snaps up her own glass, clinks it against mine, and repeats the toast. She takes the first sip. “Not bad.” She licks her lips. “Hints of tobacco.”
    Wine shoots out of my nose. “Like you’d know that.”
    Laila runs her fingertip around the rim of her glass as a mischievous smile plays on her lips. “Maybe you’re not the only one with a rebellious streak.”
    I could be blown over by fairy dust. “Well, well, well. Little Laila.”
    Embarrassment consumes her petite face. “It was only a couple of times.”
    â€œOf course,” I say.
    â€œSee, there was this